


French Braiding

by Zannolin



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Hair, I'm posting this to keep people from killing me for angst, M/M, braiding, idk it's an old thing I edited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-13
Updated: 2019-04-13
Packaged: 2020-01-12 18:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18452234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zannolin/pseuds/Zannolin
Summary: Lance always knew Keith's dumb mullet would get in the way of training. Or something like that.





	French Braiding

Keith's arm and chest muscles ache from the force of the Gladiator's blows, and sweat drips down the sides of his face, but he holds his ground. Shoulders burning, lungs tight, he heaves forward, throwing the white-and-gold robot slightly off-balance. It's not much, but it's enough for Keith to dodge sideways and lunge, his blade aimed for the Gladiator's unprotected side–

–only to stumble forward when a blaster bolt strikes the robot's head, disintegrating it into bursts of light and energy particles.

 _"Training Level Five defeated_ , _”_  intones the computer's calm voice as Keith fights to regain his equilibrium.

"What was _that_ for?" he snaps, shoving his bangs out of his eyes so he can glare properly across the training room at the lanky figure lowering his blaster-shaped Bayard.

Lance shrugs, looking sheepish. "Figured, since I'm here to train, I could train with you? Like, I know you had it under control and everything, but I couldn't pass up that good a shot."

"Whatever," Keith huffs, pulling his shirt away from his damp collarbone and flapping it, trying to cool down. "You might as well help me with Level Six."

Lance beams, and Keith tries to tell himself his warm cheeks are just a result of the exercise.

"You distract and I'll snipe?" Lance suggests, crossing the floor.

Keith nods, wiping his hair back again with the heel of his hand.

"You hit me and I'll let the bot get you," he threatens, though there isn't any real venom behind the words.

Lance's only response is a cocky smirk as he hefts his Bayard to his shoulder.

"Begin Training Level Six," Keith calls, adjusting his stance to the ready.

In a twinkling, a new Gladiator has dropped from the ceiling. But this time, it has a shield.

 _Quiznak_.

 

* * *

 

 

The level six bot's blows are more powerful than ever, shivering up Keith's Bayard to his exhausted arms. This one is cleverer, too; it always manages to block Lance's shots with its shield – or to lure Keith into the line of fire at the last second.

Frozen in a stationary battle, his blade locked against the Gladiator's, Keith puffs out a breath, trying to push his hair out of his eyes (to no avail). The bot takes full advantage of his momentary distraction, sweeping out one foot and knocking Keith's legs out from under him.

The floor rushes up to meet him, but he's prepared, rolling sideways to absorb the impact. But still the bot is ahead of him. Easily manipulating the shield to block Lance's shots, it lashes out a metal-shod foot, connecting with Keith's ribs hard enough to lift him off the floor. The breath _whooshes_ out of him as he lands, wincing, blinking hair and sweat out of his stinging eyes.

Before he can even think of standing, before he regains his breath, the Gladiator is above him, white armor gleaming.

"Halt training program!" yelps Lance, and Keith, raised on one elbow, flops back down onto his back with a groan as the training bot dissipates.

 _This is going to leave one hell of a bruise_ , he thinks, hissing in pain as he rubs his aching side.

"You okay, buddy?" Lance asks, his concerned face appearing above Keith, head haloed by the training room lights.

"Fine," he grunts, accepting the hand the other boy offers and pulling himself to his feet.

His Bayard returns to its neutral state as he tucks it into his belt for a moment, pulling a hair tie from his pocket.

"If I'd just _thought_ ," he mumbles, gripping the elastic in his teeth and trying to scrape his hair into a ponytail, "I'd've put this up earlier, and we could've beaten Level Six on the first try."

Lifting his arm stretches the tender, bruising skin, making him wince, but he ignores the pain.

"Doubt it," Lance says watching Keith struggle with his tangled locks. After a few moments of unsuccessful attempts and muffled cursing, he decides to step in.

"Come here," he sighs, tossing his Bayard to the floor. "You'll never get that mullet all up in a ponytail."

"For the last time, it's  _not_ a mullet," Keith grumbles, cheeks flushing slightly. But he stops wrestling his hair and crosses to stand by Lance.

“Okay, now turn around,” Lance instructs.

“Why?”

“Because I’m going to French braid your mu- _hair_ , and I can’t do that with you staring at me like a dope.”

“Oh,” Keith mumbles, turning even redder as he faces the wall. Then, “You can braid?”

Lance snorts. “Dude, I have two sisters, a lot of cousins, and some nieces. _Of course_ I know how to braid.”

Reaching up, he sweeps his fingers through Keith’s sweat-dampened hair, working out the tangles.

 _Whoa, his hair is soft_ , Lance thinks, trying to ignore thoughts of both missing his family and how much he likes touching Keith’s stupid mullet.

“Do you, uh, miss your family?” Keith asks, fidgeting with one of his gloves.

Lance sighs, separating the top of Keith’s hair into three sections and starting the familiar twist-add-twist pattern. Keith feels the sigh as it gusts through the hair at the nape of his neck. There’s a moment of silence before the other boy answers.

“Yeah, I do...a lot.”

Keith tries not to shiver as Lance’s long fingers comb through each new section of hair before he adds it to the braid. Aside from “fatherly ruffles” by Shiro and his - his dad, no one’s ever touched his hair. That he can remember, anyway. He even cuts it himself.

“You’re lucky,” he says quietly, surprising himself. “To have a family, I mean.”

Lance clears his throat, twists the last few strands into place and slides his fingers down the weave, searching for flyaways. “I am, yeah.” His voice is still thick, so he swallows - _hard_.

“Hair tie, please.”

Keith holds it over his shoulder so Lance can grab it, and the other boy twists the elastic around the end of the braid. There’s a moment of indecisive humming before Lance grabs Keith’s shoulders and spins him around, regarding his handiwork from the front. A few pieces of Keith’s fringe still fall into his eyes, so Lance sweeps them off his forehead and tucks them behind his ears as best he can.

“There!” he exclaims triumphant. “Perfect!”

The two boys simply look at one another for a moment - Keith, slightly pink; Lance, grinning like a dork - before Lance realizes his fingers are still brushing Keith’s cheek.

“Um,” he says eloquently, dragging his gaze anywhere _but_ those indigo eyes, and drops his hand, trying to shake blood back into his tingling arms. It would probably be more effective if all the blood in his entire traitorous body wasn’t rushing to his cheeks at that very moment.

“Thanks,” Keith mutters, ducking his head. Reaching for his Bayard with one hand, he cautiously fingers the braid with the other.

“Hup-up-up-up, no _sir_ ,” Lance scolds, smacking his hand down. “Don’t mess up my hard work! And you can thank me by helping me kick Level Six’s sorry butt.”

He bends to retrieve his own Bayard, so he doesn’t catch the look on Keith’s face, a look often mirrored in his own (without either of them realizing, to everyone’s eternal frustration).

By the time Lance straightens, Keith’s typical determined scowl is firmly in its place and training proceeds, each boy trying to forget the other’s touch.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Keith hangs his jacket and sets his boots below it. Training earlier had progressed as far as Level Nine before sheer exhaustion had trumped both boys’ combined competitiveness - usually quite the force to be reckoned with.

Keith hadn’t wanted to take out Lance’s braid, but he had needed a shower.

Now his wet hair sticks to his cheeks, still dripping slightly.

Closing his eyes, Keith leans his forehead against the cool bulkhead. There’s something he wants to do, but he’s not sure if he should.

With every breath he takes, the exhale bounces off the wall and ghosts across his face, reminding him of Lance’s fingers on his cheek. It is ten breaths before he gathers his determination and leaves the room. A few steps later, he stands in front of the door to Lance’s room, which opens before Keith can change his mind.

Lance looks up from the edge of the bed, and Keith is gratified to see that he, too, is barefooted and damp-haired, rather than his usual put-together self.

“Hey man,” he says. If he’s surprised to see Keith, he doesn’t show it. “What’s up.”

Keith steps into the room almost cautiously, as if he were a vampire and expects to be barred from entry.

“I was just wondering,” he says, wiping a waterlogged chunk of bang from his forehead. No matter how he thinks of saying it, it still sounds weird, so he just spits the question out.

“Would you, uh...maybe tell me about your family?” Keith asks hesitantly, wrapping his arms around himself.

Lance’s smile is enough to tell him a thousand times over that he made the right choice. The small, dimmed room feels brighter for it.

“Sure,” Lance says. He scoots back against one end of the bunk and gestures to the spot beside him. “But you might want to sit down. I’ve got a _huge_ family….”


End file.
